


Scars

by illwick



Series: In Between [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both John and Sherlock have scars.  They are the lines between what has been, and what could never be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although these stories are not chronological and can be read as stand-alones, certain elements of this entry are more meaningful if you've read Part 1 and Part 2. So I'd encourage you to do so if you haven't already!
> 
> An additional note: In terms of timeline, I'm referencing events on http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/

I. John

The first time Sherlock danced with John, they'd only been living together for a few weeks. Or was it months? Those initial heady days of their acquaintanceship always blend together in John's memory, to the point that if anyone asks him when a particular case or event occurred, he has trouble picking out the season, let alone the month or day. Once he returned from the war, there were only two time frames: Before Sherlock, and After Sherlock.

(And later, there would be After After Sherlock, but John doesn't think about that.)

So in those first heady days (or weeks or months) After Sherlock, John can never quite recall how they became the way they were; when he first picked up the shopping for them both, or when he first combined Sherlock's whites with his own when he did the laundry. When Sherlock first covered the entirety of their rent, or when he started using John's toothpaste. 

All that was early on, as John recalls. It wouldn't be until much much later that John started forgetting his girlfriends' names. That Sherlock quit believing in Just Transport. But a long time before all of that, in those first _days-weeks-months_ , Sherlock and John danced for the first time. 

It was after the case he'd called "The Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror," before he'd been slapped with an injunction by the ship's owners. But the gist of it was, that night they'd hijacked a bus in Leicester Square during a high-speed pursuit, they'd caught a maniacal gunmen with ties to an International terror cell, they'd gorged themselves on sushi and sake, and they'd barely made it back to Baker Street standing up, they were giggling so hard at...come to think of it, he had no recollection at what.

But the point was, they'd climbed the stairs to their flat, high on adrenaline and warm rice wine, and Sherlock had put on an old jazz record he'd dug out of a trunk in the hall closet. He was trying to explain jazz to John (AHA! That was the source of the giggling! Sherlock said that jazz was all simple maths and should be enjoyed as such, and John had said he shouldn't need to know maths to enjoy music, and then Sherlock had tried to explain Polyrhythm to him, and they'd both laughed themselves silly over Sherlock's resulting rambling diatribe), and the swelling notes of the saxophone seemed to vibrate through John's (admitted inebriated) brain.

"No, John! Count to 4! To 4!" Sherlock was clapping and laughing as he attempted to get John to count out the counter-rhythm to whatever it was they were listening to. "Oh, for God's sake, you're hopeless. Come here. It's easier if you feel it."

And effortlessly, he grabbed John's hand and pulled him up from his chair. Without hesitation, he wrapped his other arm around John's waist, and forcibly began to move him to the beat.

It wasn't romantic. It was silly, farcical, and the two of them surely made quite the sight, staggering slightly as Sherlock bossily shouted out rhythms and John attempted not to trip over his own feet.

But then the song changed, to something slow and sweet, and _this_ , this was something John could understand, simple maths or no. And suddenly, they were swaying, and all the laughter had faded.

And somehow John _knew_ , just knew, with crystalline clarity, that if he were to close the distance between himself and Sherlock in that moment, Sherlock would kiss him back. Protests of _"Married to my work"_ and _"Just Transport"_ be damned, John Watson was not new to the ways of seduction, and he could read Sherlock's face in that moment with absolute certainty, no pulse point measurement required.

But the moment before he leaned in, he felt a twinge in his shoulder. It was the twinge that made him pause every time Sarah invited him upstairs when he dropped her off after a date (and ultimately led to their separation after their disastrous holiday in New Zealand); the pause that directed him to a cab instead of home with the flirty woman he'd met at the pub.

_Scars. John's shoulder is covered in scars. The single, deep entry point from the sniper's bullet. The jagged edges of the exit wound. And the webbed ridges of the surrounding veins, ravaged by the resulting infection._

If he does not let go of Sherlock's hand, he is going to lean over and kiss him. And although he knows, objectively, that Sherlock insists relationships are not "his area," Sherlock is _very_ drunk. And then Sherlock would kiss him back.

And then they would go upstairs, and Sherlock would take off John's clothes. And then Sherlock would see the scars. And nothing could ever be the same again.

Because then it would all be laid bare at Sherlock's feet. John would have to tell him about the war, and the death, and the hellscapes that haunted his dreams. Sherlock would stop thinking of John as his equal and his partner, and instead seem him as lame and infirm. If he saw the scars and knew the story behind them, he might still sleep with John, but it would only be out of pity. And if there's one thing that John cannot stand, it is _pity_.

So John removed his hand from Sherlock's, and Sherlock let go of his waist.

"I could use another drink," said John. "Beer?" He ambled off towards the fridge.

"None for me," said Sherlock, and wandered over to turn off the turntable. 

"No more music?" asked John.

_"That song is rubbish to count to, anyway."_

John jolts back to reality. Sherlock is skipping through songs on his iPod, attempting to find what he considers a "proper waltz" for John and Mary to use as their first dance at their wedding. John had come to the flat that day with a list of suggestions that he and Mary had compiled, all of which Sherlock had shot down as "plebeian drivel."

"Sod it," Sherlock mutters, and puts on the Skater's Waltz, a look of distain pursing his lips. "I'll compose something myself for next time. Anyway, where were we?"

He unceremoniously approaches John, takes his hand, and wraps the other around his waist. John follows suit, hoping to be as unselfconscious and casual as Sherlock seems, praying that somehow Sherlock will miss the flush of color on his cheeks.

It's been forever since they've touched--not counting the fists to the face that John dished out upon Sherlock's return. John wasn't sure what he was expecting--sparks to fly? Bolts of electricity? But instead, it feels rather robotic and surprisingly impersonal.

He muddles through the dance lesson best he can, struggling to follow Sherlock's eloquent instructions despite the protestations of his two left feet. After about 30 minutes, they've had enough. Sherlock declares if he has to listen to the Skater's Waltz one more time he's going to start taking hostages, so John takes the hint and gathers his things. Sherlock has already wandered off, picking up his violin and taking a few halfhearted swipes at it.

"One more thing," John says, and Sherlock raises his eyebrow. "My stag night..."

Sherlock's expression remains blank.

"I thought it would be nice if we went out just the two of us. Just you and me."

_"Just you and me."_ The moment the words leave John's lips, he feels as though he's in one of those nightmares where you're giving a presentation in class and realize that, without reason or justification, you're not wearing your trousers. 

In his mind, when he'd rehearsed what he was going to ask Sherlock to plan for his stag night, the words had come out sounding casual, _conversational_. But now, in the harsh light of reality, they sound raw and presumptuous. _Jesus Christ, he's going to think I'm propositioning him._

He panics, and backpedals. "I just meant...Not like...We haven't gotten to spend much time together one-on-one with the wedding planning and all, and I thought..." _NOT MAKING IT BETTER, WATSON_ , his inner monologue helpfully interjects.

Sherlock appears unfazed. "Of course. Once I've finished running through the vendor list with Mary, I'll do a bit of research. Pub crawl alright? Next Thursday?"

"Uh, yeah, fine! Great. Brilliant. Cheers." John's not sure whether to be reassured or concerned that Sherlock hadn't even suspected he might have an ulterior motive. Occasionally John wonders if perhaps Sherlock simply deleted the entire last months of their relationship before his death, a thought which he supposes should bring him relief but instead churns up a feeling of indignation that he can't quite shake.

But it WOULD be a relief, he thinks, to not worry about things being awkward during his stag night. He'd agonized over the proper course of action. At first, he'd envisioned the standard 'do: rounding up a group of his mates (from Uni, Bart's, maybe even a few of his old Army friends) and getting pissed at some grotty pub on a Friday night. But he'd seen Sherlock interacting in situations like that; it always panned out one of three ways, none of which were ideal.

Option 1: Sherlock would be in a bad mood. He would be rude and insufferable and loudly make embarrassing deductions about members of their party until people either left or challenged him to a fistfight in the alley. Not ideal.

Option 2: Sherlock would be in a good mood. This was, somehow, inexplicably worse. When he was in a good mood and he was placed in a rowdy social situation, Sherlock would become quiet, introverted, and keenly aware others' perceptions of him. He'd stick to John's side like glue, looking to John for appropriate social cues (when to laugh, when to smile, when something was a bit 'not good'). He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was in bland platitudes that sounded like he was reciting monologues from bits he'd picked up on TV sitcoms about normal people (which, now that John thought about it, was entirely possible). The first few times Sherlock had been like this, John had been befuddled. But it soon became obvious that Sherlock was enduring the social situation simply to make John happy--he was playing a part to ensure he was accepted and that John didn't have to defend him. It broke John's heart. 

Option 3: He wouldn't attend. Unacceptable.

So John had come up with Option 4: They'd go out just the two of them. It'd be just like old times, he reasoned. Well, like old times up until the part where he hopefully wouldn't end up back at Baker Street with his cock in Sherlock's mouth, or draping Sherlock over the nearest horizontal surface and fucking him senseless, as had tended to happen the rare times they'd gone out drinking together in the months before Sherlock's death.

But they were past all that now, of course. For all John could tell, Sherlock didn't even have a memory of that stored on his great bloody hard drive. Deleted, he figured. Anything to do with his transport was expendable. So John would be in safe hands.


	2. Chapter 2

II. Sherlock

_Is he out of his mind?_ Every alarm in Sherlock's brain sounds on high alert the moment John says, "Just you and me." _He can't be bloody serious. There's no way in hell he would think that was a good idea._

But a quick glance at John's facial expression reveals that he is, indeed, sincere. And Sherlock is stricken with the earth-shattering realization that John Watson is completely, irreparably, _over_ him. 

Of course, he should have put the pieces together before that moment. John was getting married, after all. To a woman. Whom he loved. And Sherlock had, on a superficial level, understood that. John loved women! So of course John would want to marry one. At least, while Sherlock was away. Even when John asked him to be his best man, Sherlock had seen it as a compliment; although John may be marrying a woman, he still wanted Sherlock up there by his side. 

But he'd be remiss not to admit that there was a tiny part of him that assumed John Watson might still carry a hint of the feelings for him that they'd once shared. This was why, he'd reasoned, John had a tendency to avoid being alone with him. Perhaps he was afraid that he couldn't control his impulses! The sheer magnetism of their connection would be too strong for him to resist!

But here was the blinding proof that this was not the case. John was in no way afraid he'd slip up and compromise his engagement. He was so certain of it, in fact, that he was asking Sherlock to go out alone with him, imbibe in copious amounts of alcohol, and trusted himself not to be tempted.

John was well and truly over Sherlock Holmes.

Scraping what was left of his dignity off the floor, Sherlock responds as quickly as he can muster, trusting that the prodigious speed of his brain would cover for the fact that he had, momentarily, been completely caught off-guard. "Of course. Once I've finished running through the vendor list with Mary, I'll do a bit of research. Pub crawl alright? Next Thursday?"

The planning for the pub crawl was excruciating. And not simply the part where he'd made the mistake of asking Molly Hooper for help with the calculations, which had led to one of the more profoundly awkward conversations he'd had in recent memory. 

But the real planning, the gory heart of it, was not simply finding a way to make sure that he and John didn't end up hung over the next morning. After all, one of Mrs. Hudson's fry-ups and shotgunning a few glasses of water could clear that up in a matter of hours, as they'd learned in the past. No, the real planning involved Sherlock staying sober enough that he wouldn't regress into the insatiable slag he seemed to transform into whenever he combined alcohol and John Watson. 

After they'd begun to satisfy their carnal urges with each other, but before their relationship had taken a turn in Cornwall, Sherlock had always had trouble expressing to John what he wanted...sexually. The fact that they never even verbally acknowledged that one random Tuesday they'd simply started getting each other off on a regular basis was a testament to the willful, masculine stoicism of two emotionally constipated flatmates-turned-lovers. Their sexual encounters were generally brief, frantic, and cursory; no demands were made or detailed words exchanged, it was simply a jumble of hands and mouths and "Yes" and "Okay" and a breathless finish followed by an awkward silence.

But one night, that all changed. A client had given Sherlock a bottle of obscenely expensive Scotch as a gift, and John had decided it would be hilariously ironic if they drank the whole thing whilst eating pizza and watching Eurovision on the telly. Several drinks later, as the contestant from Azerbaijan took the stage, Sherlock got on his knees in front of John and said simply, "I want you to fuck my face."

John lifted his gaze blearily from the glare of the screen. "Sorry?"

"Right now. I want you to stand up, undo your trousers, and stuff your cock in my mouth, hard, and don't stop until you finish."

So John did.

Sherlock would have written it off as a fluke, a glitch in his otherwise well-controlled system, except that three weeks and two days later a similar event occurred. They'd been undercover at a club near Camden and had perhaps taken their commitment to their characters a bit too far and had ordered what could be summarily described as several rounds of tequila too many. Despite the blurred edges around his vision, Sherlock was at least coherent enough to identify the culprit, text Lestrade, and stick around to help with the arrest, before noticing that he was well and truly pissed.

Once he and John were in the back of a cab, he leaned in conspiratorially and whispered in John's ear.

"I have something to show you."

"Oh?" John was just as knackered as he was, and seemed fixated on the city lights flashing by the rain-spattered window.

Sherlock reached into the his coat pocket and dug out the pair of handcuffs that he'd knicked from Lestrade when he wasn't looking, and dangled them in the air.

John turned and started at them uncomprehendingly.

"What are you going to do with those?"

"Oh, John. I'm not going to do anything with them. You're going to take me home and tie me up and make me beg." He lowered his voice an octave. _"Please."_

John had nearly gotten them kicked out of the cab.

According to his scientific studies, an event occurring twice under similar circumstances was not enough to conclusively say that it was a pattern, but it was probable that the outcomes were linked. Luckily, Sherlock had the opportunity to test his hypothesis again just ten days later, when they went out to a pub for Lestrade's birthday.

John had seemed pleasantly surprised how little cajoling it took to get Sherlock to agree to come. Sherlock had to make an effort to hide the bounce in his step as John approached the bar and ordered their first round. He had something special planned, if he could muster up enough liquid courage to propose it.

Three hours later, they were two sheets to the wind, entangled in the back alley behind the pub in a most compromising position. Sherlock's hands were wrapped about their hardened lengths, frantically pulling them towards completion as John pressed his back against the sooty brick wall, trailing feverish kisses along his exposed neckline. 

Voices at the end of the alley caused them to stop their proceedings and duck behind the closest skip. For a long moment they simply crouched side by side, trying to steady their breathing, as they listened to three of Lestrade's colleagues trade barbs about tomorrow's football match.

He'd hoped they'd be quick about it, but it seemed they'd stepped out for a smoke and were in no hurry to get back to the pub. But Sherlock's body had no interest in pumping the brakes; he could feel the desire pulsing through every vein in his body. Caution be damned-- he reached into John's lap and took him back into his hand. John issued a shuttering sigh. And then Sherlock felt John's hand creep into his own lap, and close around his erection. Slowly, John's hand began to move.

Sherlock was dizzy with booze and lust. The adrenaline of this was comparable to a high speed chase, to a hit of cocaine, to stealing government IDs out of Mycroft's wallet! Sex with John normally was fantastic enough, but sex with John drunk in this darkened alley, mere feet away from being discovered, had every one of Sherlock's senses sparking with what felt like electric jolts. His brain had shut down completely, and his transport had him on hyperdrive. When he felt John spill into his fist with a final suppressed groan, Sherlock rocked over the edge into his own orgasm and surrendered to the flood of endorphins.

They'd stayed like that, crouched next to the skip and breathing hard, for what felt like an eternity, until the voices of Lestrade's colleagues faded into the night.

So staying sober-ish was paramount. Even though that was all in the past, even though John had moved on, Sherlock worried about his own willpower. Under the influence of alcohol (and the brazen confidence that came with it), he could make no guarantees. So he sets about engaging a series of trip-wires in his brain--should the situation take a turn, he'd activate the trip-wire, and would (hopefully) be able to turn himself around before he did something truly regrettable. Such as proposition his best friend a week before he was set to marry someone else.


	3. Chapter 3

III. John

John needs a drink. Which is ironic, considering that he's currently in the midst of a pub crawl on his stag night and by all reasonable accounts should be shitfaced two ways 'till Sunday, but thanks to Sherlock's fastidious calculations, he's barely toeing the right side of buzzed.

It wouldn't be so bad if the entire situation weren't so painfully awkward. When John had concocted this plan in his mind, he'd imagined he and Sherlock out painting the town, bantering back and forth and sharing quips and quibbles, like in the good old days. Instead, he found them standing silently side-by-side at each pub, fidgeting uncomfortably, at a loss for what to say.

When had things between them become so damn _strained?_ John supposed that despite Sherlock's return, he hadn't spent enough time recreationally at Baker Street to notice how their interactions had shifted when they weren't on a case together. Casually hanging out felt strangely forced, as though he were attending a class reunion and had run into an old mate whose name he couldn't remember.

At the beginning of a night, it hadn't seemed like a problem. Thanks to the theme of the pub crawl ( _corpses_ \--leave it to Sherlock), there was at least a decent jumping-off point for conversation as they entered each pub. Sherlock, smiling widely, would place the beaker full of beer in front of John, and John would fondly recount the story of the crime they'd solved that was committed near that very location.

Which had all been well and good, until the end of the story. The first few pubs, the end of the story was easy to recount ("...Then you got rid of your shock blanket, and Mycroft showed up and you told him off, and then we went for Chinese, and you actually did predict the fortune cookies!"), and John thought nothing of it. But they hit a snag in the routine, when they happened to go to two pubs in a row near crime scenes for which recounting how the case had ended was not something that could be shared in polite company. (John couldn't very well conclude his reminiscing with, "And after Lestrade got the perp in his car, I took you home and handcuffed you to your headboard and fucked you so hard you couldn't walk straight for a week," or "And after the paramedics finished stitching up your knee, we went home and I held you down by your hair and came on your face, then fed you my come by the fingerful while you beat yourself off.") So instead, he lapses into an awkward silence. Sherlock fidgets, entering data into his phone. They don't speak any more after that.

By the time they reach the seventh pub, John has had enough. He sidles up to the bar, orders their beers, and then two shots for himself. And when he loses track of one of them (was it the beer on his left or his right?), his guilt at overserving Sherlock is quickly replaced by overwhelming relief.

The alcohol has done the trick. It's loosened their tongues, and in no time they're gossiping like old friends; about Mrs. Hudson's love life, Molly's new cat jumper (which, remarkably, is somehow even worse than the other five she owns), the insufferable new nurse covering John's shift at the surgery. 

_See?_ John thinks to himself as he orders another round. _You can do this. This is easy. You're still yourselves, after all--it just takes a few shots to find your way back there._


	4. Chapter 4

IV. Sherlock

Sherlock doesn't remember how he got here, but he's sitting next to John _(tooclosetooclose)_ and their eyes are locked and John has just said something about preserving his reputation and Sherlock feels suddenly compelled to lean forward _just-an-inch-or-two-more_ when the trip-wire he set for himself in his mind is activated.

_Scars. Sherlock's back is covered in scars. Deep, criss-crossed, ferocious marks left by the whip. Small, indented, puckered scars from the cigarettes. And the light, delicate, intricate designs left by a bored guard's razor blade. All souvenirs from his trip to Serbia, a permanent reminder of all he'd set out to achieve, and all he'd failed to do._

If he does not stand up from where he is sitting (on the bottom step of the staircase of 221B, from what his hazy mind can deduce), he is going to lean over and kiss John Watson. And although he knows, objectively, that John is over him, John is _very_ drunk as well. And then John would kiss him back.

And then they would go upstairs, and John would take off Sherlock's clothes. And then John would see the scars. And nothing could ever be the same again.

Because then it would all be laid bare at John's feet. He'd have to tell him about the snipers, the threats, the real reason he'd left. And John would feel guilty, feel responsible, maybe even _forgive_ him, truly and fully. And it would be so painfully, purely obvious that he had loved John Watson more than life itself, and that's why he had died, and that's why he came back, but to an empty flat and a politely distant partner. Because John Watson did not love him now. Not anymore. Except if he saw the scars and knew the story behind them, he might love him again, but it would only be out of pity. And if there's one thing that Sherlock cannot stand, it is _pity._

He needs an escape, but he doesn't trust himself to stand. So he does the only other thing he can think of to do; he leans back onto the staircase, and twists onto his side, away from John.

For a moment he's worried John has caught on and will know something's wrong. But instead he feels John's weight readjust as he lies down next to him, flush against Sherlock's back. He doesn't face Sherlock, or even touch him--his arms must be crossed over his chest. The crisis is averted.

Sherlock can't remember what they were talking about, but he needs to fill the silence, somehow. He implores his muddled mind to recall what they had been discussing moments ago. Reputations? That sounded right. 

_"I have an international reputation."_


End file.
